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... nto her pillow, the words lost to the soft fabric and the wider, indifferent universe. It was late, moonlight slanting silver through the glass, throwing her scattered thoughts into sharper relief. There was no answer, of course. Not from the ceiling, not from her bruised heart, not even from the wind sighing beyond the warded stone.
But there was, it seemed, an answer from the mattress.
A suspiciously lumpy, faintly fruity answer.
Something warm and vaguely spiky pressed ...
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